“That’s because he’s still trying to prove something.” Another voice joined in. “Still trying to show he’s not like those New York gallery people who betrayed him.”
They all nodded.
Emily frowned.What happened in New York?
“Well, at least he came back home. Opened Stone’s Gallery in that old warehouse nobody else wanted. Been fighting to preserve the town’s character ever since.”
“Because he gets it. He knows what it’s like to lose something to people who only see dollar signs.” Sally’s voice held fierce loyalty.
“The resort development isn’t just about money, though.” The younger woman glanced around. “It’s about survival. Half the businesses on Main Street barely made it through last year.”
“Which is exactly what Oceanside is counting on. Desperation makes people compromise.” Sally straightened.
The conversation shifted to more speculation about the mayor and where she stood on all of this.
Emily turned back to the bar and studied her beer bottle’s label, gently peeling back the edge of it. Grant had been betrayed. No wonder he’d looked at her with such suspicion at the farmer’s market. No wonder he’d asked what brought her to Starlight Shores with that particular edge in his voice. She was probably a walking reminder of everything he’d run from.
Bryan reappeared. “Your table’s ready if you’d like. Or you can order here at the bar.”
“Here’s fine.” She accepted the menu without really seeing it and ordered automatically. Grilled grouper sandwich and coleslaw. Safe choices.
While she waited, her mind circled back to Grant and the gallery that barely broke even. To his fight against development pressure that threatened the town’s authenticity. To his careful support of local artists.
He was trying to protect something. Trying to preserve what mattered against forces that only saw commercial potential. She understood that impulse. She’d spent months protecting what remained of her own reputation, guarding against anyone who might weaponize her past mistakes or misunderstand her intentions.
But protection became stifling eventually. She was learning that slowly.
Her food arrived, and she ate while half-listening to conversations flowing around her. The locals moved from development concerns to speculation about summer tourist projections to someone’s daughter’s wedding plans. Normal life. Community life. The kind of interconnected existence she’d lost when scandal had isolated her.
She’d had this once in Chicago, with a network of colleagues and friends who understood her references and shared her passions. People who knew her well enough to read her moods and offer support without being asked.
Daniel’s betrayal had been devastating, but losing her professional community had been equally disastrous in its own way. All those carefully cultivated relationships had evaporated overnight when accusations started flying.
Through the window, Emily could just make out the lighthouse beam beginning its sweep across the darkening sky. Reliable. Constant. Present. Winnie had said the lighthouse attracted people who needed healing and those searching for something they couldn’t name. Maybe Grant Stone had been one of those people when he returned home. Maybe he’d come home wounded and determined to create something authentic in a world that had shown him its ugliest face.
And now here she was, carrying her own wounds and complicated history. No wonder he kept his distance.
She paid her bill and stepped out into the humid evening air. The harbor stretched before her. Boat masts swayed gently. Water lapped against wooden pilings. Somewhere, a gull cried out.
The gallery sat a few blocks down, its windows dark for the evening. She found herself walking toward it anyway. She stopped across the street and studied the building. The warehouse conversion showcased thoughtful design with large windows, clean lines, and respect for the original structure’s character. A man who built something like this understood preservation and the difference between honoring the past and being trapped by it.
She turned toward home. She’d learned something tonight that mattered. Grant Stone wasn’t just some suspicious local protecting his territory. He was someone who understood loss. Someone who’d been betrayed by the same world that had betrayed her.He poured every profit back into supporting local artists, still trying to prove something. That knowledge changed things.
Chapter13
The pottery mug felt solid in Emily’s hands. She’d made coffee in the little kitchen, finding comfort in the morning routine she’d established over the past few weeks. The bowl Grant had left still rested on the windowsill, filled with her beach stone and shell collection. Small, simple things that anchored her somehow.
She finished her coffee and got dressed. The sun wasn’t fully up yet. There was just that soft pre-dawn light that painters loved.
The beach called to her. It always did these days. She stepped out onto the porch and headed down the path toward the beach. The sand was cool beneath her bare feet. She carried nothing. No sketchbook today. No agenda. Just the water and maybe some peace.
But someone was already there. Melissa stood near the water’s edge with her camera equipment arranged around her like sentries. She was crouched low, angling a shot toward the lighthouse from an unusual perspective. The tripod looked complicated. Professional. The kind of setup that took time and intention.
She hesitated. Melissa had been friendly enough at the gathering. They’d bonded over their shared discomfort with crowds. But that didn’t mean she wanted company now. Some people needed solitude for their work. She started to turn back.
“You can stay.” Melissa’s voice carried across the sand. She didn’t look up from her camera. “Or I won’t be offended if you want to just walk past and have your privacy. I’m just documenting.”
Emily walked closer instead. Something in Melissa’s tone made it clear she wasn’t merely being polite. She genuinely didn’t mind either way.
